Rays of Pelor, Book I: Confrontation
by Bruunbjorn
Summary: Janus Gannon, a young cleric of Pelor finds himself in the middle of an ancient war, which is now resumed. What his role is in this conflict, he does not know, but one thing is certain: There will be deaths of both friend and foe.


**Author's Note:** Hello people at Fanfiction! This is my absolutely first novel, so please bear with me if I make some obvious mistakes or do something terrible wrong. It was not my intention. Hope you enjoy the prologue and if you want to give me a review with your opinion, please do so. Constructive criticism is appreciated and much welcome. How am i going to improve if no one tells me what to do? And one last thing, i must thank Jakob (SF Ghost in the Star Fox section), my good friend. Without him, i would have gone nowhere with Rays of Pelor. Thanks!

**Rays of Pelor**

**Book I: Confrontation**

**Prologue: The Emissary of Unlife**

_In its capacious nexus beyond all space and time,_

_The Terror now lay dorment._

_The champions of good, however, knew,_

_That this tranquillity would not last._

_And that the Terror would soon again be free,_

_To corrupt and seduce with power._

- Jamneiros Silverkin, Bard and scribe, excerpt from "Precognition", written in 1248 DR – the year of Clashing Demons

Beatrice could see her own breath materialize as vapour in the mercilessly cold air of the tundra in the lands of Narfell. She shivered and pulled her heavy woollen coat tightly against her old body. It was an unusually cold summer, even for a land with such an arctic climate. This piercing cold was quite inconvenient at this time of year, seeing as all the nomadic tribes of Narfell gathered for the annual meeting between tribes, commonly known as Bildoobaris.

Beatrice turned around to look at the caravan which consisted of approximately one hundred individuals, both humans, gnomes and a minority of half-orcs, each carrying a tent, their wares and personal belongings on carriages, led by the famous Narfellian horses. Armed guards flanked the caravan, protecting it from the perils of the wild, and guiding the dozen of oxen the caravan had brought along for food. Children were laughing as they played in the thick layer of bitterly cold snow, spread all over the land as far as the eye could see. They threw a ball to each other, made of leather and miscellaneous leftovers of cloth the seamstress gave to the children, trying to keep warm. Judging from their reactions, this game – despite its large amount of simplicity – amused them a great deal, because there was not much else to do in these empty lands where only nomads and tribes would camp, but they would not for long. They had to move with the migrating herds of reindeer and wild oxen to survive the otherwise desolate and infertile lands, where frost had drained the soil of all vitality and no crop could grow, besides the scraggly grass which clung adamantly to life despite the numbing cold of the frost. Parents watched warily over their children, in fear of their precious daughter or son to get too far behind the caravan which did not stop to pick up stragglers. To do so would risk the lives of everyone in the caravan, not only because of the cold but also because of the always impending dangers of wild beasts attacking. Narfell consisted of not only human nomads, or the Nar as they called themselves, but also tundra yetis and hobgoblins, only waiting to pounce upon an unfortunate and defenceless human or caravan.

Beatrice hated these lands; she did not leave Narfell because of a petty impulse. She had lost sons, daughters and even her beloved husband to the merciless lands, only leaving back a single daughter and her child. It was not with joy that she once again returned to see and experience what had caused her such misery that she found it necessary to escape with what little she had left. Her daughter had insisted to stay herself, not wanting her child to live a life as a traveller like Beatrice. It was with great sadness that she had to part with her daughter, only to see her again at the Bildoobaris.

She was disturbed in her mental reverie by the caravan's captain, a handsome man with tanned skin, revealing his origin from the lands of Calimshan where the lands were considerably warmer but not necessarily more welcoming. He wore a thick and broad breastplate, shining under his leathery cloak, which protected his muscular frame. His face, exuding an unperturbed demeanour, looked amiably at Beatrice.

"What's on your mind, old lady?" he said with a playful smile.

She sighted exasperatedly, and turned her head slightly towards him as if to express the unbearable regularity with which this joke had been used, "You watch your mouth young man, or you will face the consequences from an old lady. You wouldn't even know what this old body can actually do. You'd be surprised, Jamice," she answered him with an admonishing gesture. Jamice Wyvernjack laughed with a broad smile on his friendly face.

"I would not doubt that for a second. Who would want to evoke the wrath of an old lady like you? I sure wouldn't like to be stabbed in the night by your deadly knitting needle," he answered with a melodramatic voice, as if he wanted to perform an act. He continued in a serious voice, "But honestly, what is nagging you? You haven't quite been yourself ever since we crossed the border of Narfell,"

"It's nothing. Just the worries of an old lady. Nothing you should trouble your young mind with. How far away are we from Bildoobaris? I'm looking forward to a large glass of brandy. It melds the frost from these old bones of mine," she commented jokingly.

He scouted into the distance and sighted thoughtfully, "About three or four days until we reach Bildoobaris, but with this weather it could be another day's journey. I honestly don't know. I haven't experienced such a thick layer of snow in Narfell before; it may hamper our movement. I too look forward to getting a… wait, what is that?" he mumbled wonderingly to himself, gazing intensively towards the horizon as if he had suddenly spotted something unexpected along the way. Following the direction of his gaze, Beatrice saw what had suddenly alarmed him.

Two small figures appeared from behind a hill, wearing black clothing and armour. From the distance between the caravan and the two mysterious riders, Jamice could not discern specific details. He shouted a series of orders to the guards of the caravan and twenty guards appeared beside the captain, weapons drawn and looking anxious at the sight of a new potential danger. Wearing simple ringmails, shields and armed with axes and longswords, the guards rode in a formation, optimal for protecting the caravan from frontal attacks.

As they approached the two mysterious riders, Jamice could see that they both wore no marks which indicated place of origin. Both rode on black horses, barded with darkened leather, emanating an eldritch aura of evil and hostile intents. The smaller of the two was obviously a woman because of her lithe and agile figure. Her face was preternaturally beautiful as those of the fey, but at the same time dispassionate, as if the whole situation bored her immensely, her aquamarine eyes glaring coldly at Jamice. Her flaxen hair was tied in a plait to maximize manoeuvrability in combat without her hair bothering her. She wore black plate armour, which was emblazoned with marks of something sinister. At first glance, it looked like some sort of skull, which was normal for soldiers who wanted to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies with an intimidating presence. But her strange appearance, which was quite abnormal for these reaches of the world, was nothing in comparison to the man beside her.

The man in front of them was like no man Jamice had ever seen. His entire plate armour was made of bones, bones of humanoids, making it look like some sort of creature stripped of its flesh, only revealing the skeleton. However, the dimly glinting and opaque metal of his armour seemed to have fused with the fragments of bone, creating a most horrifying fusion which gave the illusion that the skeleton was protecting the armour, not the other way around as it usually was. The kneecaps of his armour were reinforced with human skulls, grinning morbidly at whoever opposed him. His helmet was put together by a large number of smaller bones, almost resembling a broken and fractured skull. It was if the man did not breath at all, for contrary to the others in the caravan and the woman next to him, no vapour materialized through the visor of his grotesquely shaped helmet. Through its eye-slits, two steel-grey eyes could be seen glinting callously, looking at the caravan with undisguised anticipation. He emanated such a dark aura of death and despair that the soldiers began to shiver at his mere presence. The soldiers drew their weapons cautiously to be ready for what the malignant couple would do.

Jamice could feel the hair at the back of his neck rise, as if a cold wind suddenly hit him when he approached the man in armour of bone. He began to feel lost, seized by the cold hands of panic and despair, distraught by the man's very presence. Nonetheless, he summoned the strength to address the unknown figures staunchly, "Strangers, identify yourselves!" he ordered determinedly, "Why do you obstruct our path?". He rested his right hand at the hilt of his trusted great sword which had accompanied him through many dangers.

The man turned his steel-grey eyes towards Janice, who felt his very soul penetrated by the intensity of the gaze, "You do not talk to me like that, insolent slave! You are merely another corpse in my ranks, another resource for me to use as I see fit. And the rest of your caravan… well, let's just say that they will fall under my banner in due course," he said nonchalantly in a hoars and dry voice which was barely above a whisper, distorted through the bone visor of his helmet. The voice seemed somehow to originate from lifeless domain beyond the grave as if its possessor were already halfway dead. Each syllable was drawn out in a sort of monotonous hum. The glare of his eyes became more intense as he spoke. Despite the obvious chill she was feeling, the fey-like woman next to the dark knight was smiling condescendingly to Jamice.

"I don't see you carrying a banner. What are you talking about, wicked one?" Jamice cried threateningly. His training as Paladin had taught him how to distinguish wicked people from normal righteous people, but this training was not required to detect the almost tangible impulses of evil which seemed to emanate from these dark individuals.

Upon hearing himself being referred to as wicked, the bone knight exploded into a fit of unsurpassable rancour, staring madly at the paladin before him who had uttered this insult, "How dare you, you weak-minded follower of false beliefs? You lapdog, you do not talk to your future master in such a fashion! My banner is a spiritual one, servant! It represents the bond of unlife, with which I shall bind you and your "friends" to me and you will have no choice but to obey! Now, be good slaves and lay down your arms so that you may be inducted into my ranks of undead!" he yelled manically with a shrill tinge in his voice, glowering balefully at the members of the caravan.

Beatrice felt a foreboding sense of disaster as these words were spoken. She felt that their lives was certainly threatened and that - worst of all – their demise would be imminent. With trembling hands she silently whispered a last prayer to Pelor in the hope that he would steel her against the coming danger. _"I am ready, take care of my daughter and grandson,"_ she prayed pleadingly, hoping that Pelor would hear her in her hour of need.

Jamice looked incredulously at the bone knight, "Undeads? What is this? What in the name of Helm are you talking about?" he stammered and looked around abruptly, as if looking for the army of which the bone knight spoke, "Where ever your so called army is, it shall not pass us, soldiers of Helm! We will destroy you and send your tainted soul to where it belongs, abomination!" Jamice yelled in a stentorian voice. He drew his sword, and suddenly all sound was silenced by the enormous crack of thunder which flew from it. Its hilt was formed like an angel, spreading its wings to guard his hand. The sword itself was made of cold iron, since most demons feared it for its ability to cut easier into their flesh. He pointed his sword towards the bone knight, "Soldiers, gather your strength and courage! The power of Helm and all that is good will prevail against this heretic! Attack!" ye yelled and the soldiers rote, yelling "For Helm!" while pointing their weapons threateningly towards the dark couple.

None of them moved, even though several soldiers were soon going to be at sword-length. The woman looked uninterested towards the approaching soldiers and turned her face towards at her companion. The dark knight laughed madly behind his helm while lifting both arms above his head in a summoning gesture. He yelled with a fanatical voice, "Arise, my minions! Arise and welcome your new brothers and sisters! Welcome them on our lifeless path to victory!"


End file.
